As The Moon Loves The Sun
by Acharnae
Summary: So, how much AU is ok to see Grima get a better ending than Tolkien gave him? No nauseatingly pretty, perfect, charming OFC in sight, I promise. Sequel to sunandshadows story of same title, rated PG13, might go up later (Slashy stuff somewere ahead).
1. about this story please read

Warning: potentially slash, but no lemon (read: graphic sex) scenes. Should my characters come close to doing something seriously slashy, I`ll warn you at the beginning of the chapter. Apart from that: Explosions, Uruks, Grima in trouble.  
  
Intro: some stuff you might want to know before reading the story. If you don`t feel like bothering with it, jump ahead to the next chapter.  
  
***** Read sunandshadow's already? *****  
  
O.k., I'd prefer if sunandshadow was already posting further chapters, too. I consider what I'm about to do to her story a second prize, but let's not give up hope, she might yet write her own, somewhat darker, version of Part II. So, shower her in reviews and plotbunnies and pathetic begging for a part II, curse the fact that all the inspiring Grima & Saruman stuff is cut out of RotK, and let's all hope the movie will be enough of an inspiration anyway.  
  
********* New here?  
*********  
  
Right.  
  
Now the excuse for this is: one of the best Grima fics I've read so far is as yet unfinished, ending just when Grima is kicked out of Edoras, and the writer, sunandshadow, graciously allowed me to tinker along with it. Actually, we`re deviding the story: darkfic and lightfic. My part II is going to be as much of a lightfic as you can expect something which includes 10 000 Uruk-Hai to be.  
  
So: This is not a new chapter, but a sequel to an existing story.  
  
You might want to read her part one () first, though most of my chapter one is going to make sense as it is.  
  
Otherwise, here`s her summary:  
  
What's AU: When Theoden King sent to Gondor for aid against the orcs, the Lord of Gondor did not deny them, but sent Faramir and his company. Boromir doesn't die, but instead accompanies Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli to Edoras after the breaking of the fellowship. Theodred doesn't die because Wormtongue is too busy to try to kill him. Some would argue that Faramir's character is AU, but IMHO my Faramir is just the sort of guy who would make up a story about a holy spring in order to get some information out of a hobbit without resorting to force; just the sort of guy who would know enough about evil to not take the ring; and possibly the sort of guy who, if he no longer had an older brother to provide an heir, might marry Eowyn for the sake of his country's morale.  
  
Go enjoy. Make me happy and review. Make me ecstatically happy and review sunandshadow`s part I, too. 


	2. Chapter One: Last Bridge Burning

Disclaimer: O.k., all the characters you know from the movies and books are Tolkiens. Most of the ones you don't recognize are sunandshadows, and so is the whole idea, but she allowed me to play around with it (Thanks a million!). The ownership of my soul is dubitable, but my keyboard is still mine.  
  
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As The Moon Loves The Sun - Part II  
  
Chapter 1: Last Bridge Burning  
  
Once upon a time in the land of Gondor men build a fortification at their northernmost border, in a valley, at the source of the river Angren springing from the surrounding mountains. Using the hardest rock to find they built a ring wall and a mighty tower rising from its centre, and named the fortress Angrenost.  
  
Men's works are seldom forever, yet this outlived the reign of its makers. Through the centuries it fell into the hands of enemies, was won back and granted to loyal friends, and became known as the Iron Enclosure for its hardness and endurance. Finally Gondor gave leave to take abode in Angrenost to a friend of the horselords, the first and greatest of Maiar, Curunár, and after him called the tower Orthanc: the Cunning Mind.  
  
The valley in which the fortress stood came to be know as Nan Curunír, even after the wizard inhabiting it was known all through Middle Earth as Saruman the White. And thence he dwelled for three hundred years, researching old lore, fashioning strange devices, hoarding scrolls and knowledge, watching the stars and wandering under the trees which filled the circle of the wall and the nearby Fangorn Forrest.  
  
Over the decades, the secrets found in the tales of old and the possibilities which the stars seemed to spell out grew more promising than the whispers of trees. And so Saruman spend more and more nights pouring over ancient scrolls, and fewer and fewer days wandering under the trees....  
  
********************  
  
Gríma gazed out of the window of his room, close to one of the ground floor libraries. His face showed no emotion as he surveyed the smoking mines and black-smithies filling the Ring of Isengard. He did not truly see, lost in thought as he was, but he smelled the smoke, and something else, something which evaded the grasping fingers of his mind.  
  
Strange... He had always considered Orthanc as something of a refuge because it was a place of learning and understanding, a place where his own thirst for knowledge was respected, not ridiculed. The trees had been... well, pleasant, but he had never thought of them as a part of what made Isengard a sanctuary. He had never realized how the contrast to the dry, barren, windswept plains of Rohan had soothed his frayed soul as soon as he stepped onto the path leading through the whispering woods. He had never thought that it would hurt him to find the lush vegetation of Isengard replaced by stumps and burned earth. Somehow the sight alarmed him far beyond what a couple of felled trees and smithies justified, but the reason eluded him, and it gnawed at his mind - Gríma was not used to being unable to understand.  
  
Saruman was using Isengard as a stronghold for his orcs. Orcs needed weapons and armour. Weapons and armour had to be forged, and that took forges and lots of fire. But something wasn't...  
  
The solution wavered into grasping reach and then slipped away as a knock at the doorframe interrupted Gríma's train of thought. He spun around, working hard to hide his irritation, should its cause happen to be Saruman. A smallish orc with yellow eyes like a goat's stood in the door way.  
  
"The master summons you."  
  
Its speech was barely intelligible; it was difficult to believe these loathsome creatures had been shaped from elves, by all accounts a delicate, beautiful people, with a language like music and love for songs. Legend had it that elf blood ran in the royal bloodline of Gondor, and certainly Faramir had seemed to have an instinct for poetry, more than any man (or maiden) of Rohan anyway... Shaking his head in dismissal of such useless thoughts, Gríma dragged his mind into the more relevant track of trying to calculate all the different paths his confrontation with Saruman might take. "Lead the way, then." He gestured imperiously. He usually enjoyed lording it over the mindless orcs, but today he had not the attention to spare, and was haughty merely out of habit. The orc led the way up a flight of steps, and Gríma followed.  
  
On arriving in Orthanc, Gríma had been told by one of Saruman's minions that the wizard was too busy to see him. He had not been certain whether this was a good or a bad sign. Clearly it showed the unimportance of anything Gríma had to tell, and therefore his failing as a spy, yet that could not be surprising. Gandalf's battle for the mind of Theoden king could not have gone unnoticed by Saruman; the wizard had even spoken through the king! Perhaps he had expected his spy to be slain by the enraged monarch and already made plans to do without him...  
  
Or, a darker thought - maybe he had, on Gríma's arrival in Isengard, decided to dispose of his useless ally himself. But no, surely he would have deputized an orc for such a task? Saruman was never one to waste his time on something as simple as an execution... Gríma shuddered at the thought of his own death as a 'simple' thing, but that was absolutely what it would be to Saruman, what it would have been to Theoden, or practically anyone. _...Except Faramir..._ a thought prodded him, but he ignored it, forcing his mind back to finding a way to survive the impending meeting, which neared with every one of the tower's many worn stone steps which passed beneath his feet. Counting the multitudes who would take satisfaction in his death would do nothing towards averting said death. Well, perhaps it might motivate him to live just to spite them all... Gríma almost smiled.  
  
If Saruman really considered disposing of a servant who had lost his usefulness... what could Gríma offer him to prove that his services might yet be valuable? What kind of information could buy him time, if not lasting security? The arrival of the long lost heir to the throne of Gondor? The presence of the sons of Denethor? Éowyn's noticeable preference for Faramir, or Faramir's preference...  
  
Something in Gríma shuddered and recoiled at the thought of disclosing that tale to Saruman, but before he could decipher it, the orc stopped in front of a doorway and stood aside to let Gríma enter.  
  
Saruman awaited him in a large study close to one of his alchemical workrooms on one of the lower floors of the tower. Gríma could hear orcs shuffling and toiling in one of the adjacent rooms. Saruman was whispering orders to a trio of orcs and showed no inclination to cut his instructions short when Gríma arrived. A rather see-through gesture to impress Gríma with his lack of importance, the former counsellor thought, and painfully unnecessary at that. But it gave him a few moments more to try to find something with which to purchase his continued existance.  
  
At last Saruman dismissed the orcs and turned towards Gríma, his dark, deep eyes measuring the man.  
  
"So, you have failed."  
  
Well. If nothing else, that was a clear starting point for their conversation. Gríma knew better than to make an attempt at defense, so he merely lowered his head deferentially. Saruman allowed the silence to last long enough to be uncomfortable before continuing.  
  
"And foolishly so... to let the interfering old crow into the presence of the king, and armed with his staff!"  
  
Pointing out that Saruman himself had exulted in predicting that Gandalf would be helpless to cut through the web he had thrown over Theoden's mind, Gríma felt, would not improve his situation. He contented himself with saying that he had given strict orders to have the wizard's staff taken from him.  
  
Saruman sneered at this. "Yes, and then trusted a meat-headed Rohirrim warrior to carry out that order. Spiting _you_ might have been one of his reasons in leaving the old fool his staff!"  
  
Without being aware of it, Gríma fell back into the old nervous habit of twisting a piece of cloth around his fingers. He knew Saruman was right. He _should_ not have trusted Hama with so important a thing. He knew that no wizard would part from his staff as long as there was any way around it, and how could he not have seen that it would be a child's play for the cunning old conjurer to outwit some bone-headed warrior? He had fumed about Hama's thickheadedness often enough to know that even taking one of the most powerful maiar on Middle-Earth for a feeble old man would not be beyond Hama's capacity for foolishness.  
  
Well. _The_ most powerful maiar on Middle-Earth, as his success in breaking Saruman's influence over Theoden's mind had established as a fact. Pointing _that_ out to Saruman would probably put an definite, though not necessarily quick end to his troubles.  
  
But why had he failed to control Hama? Easy enough. Because his thoughts had been distracted by dreams and ridiculous compliments and the shocking kindness of an infatuated prince! Yet... Gandalf had seemed forewarned of the enchantment upon the king. It was quite possible that even a slavishly loyal Hama would not have been able to part the maiar, canny as he was ancient, from his staff when he knew it would be needed.  
  
Seeing that Gríma was not tempted to fill the silence, Saruman continued.  
  
"And what, Gríma Wormtongue, do you think will come about in Edoras now that your influence on Theoden King has failed?"  
  
Gríma tasted bitterness in the back of his throat at the hated epithet, but concentrated on the question.  
  
"Theoden now knows of the attacks on his people from both the Dunlanders and the Uruk-hai, and Theodred, Eomer, and Éowyn will have no difficulty convincing him that war is at hand. He will not stay at Edoras. His horsemen are war-trained, yet in Edoras they have no stronghold to fall back on. It is too vulnerable..."  
  
While Gríma spun his reasoning for Helms Deep as the most likely place for the Rohirrim to flee to, Saruman was silent. When Gríma had finished, the wizard only raised his eyebrows in response, then rose and motioned Gríma to stay and wait while he headed for a staircase leading into the depths of Isengard.  
  
Gríma tried to use the time to bring his thoughts to order. A voice nagged him that something was terribly wrong. It was only a whisper, yet it slowly seemed to increase in volume, hindering his thinking. He could not pinpoint the reason. Everything was as ever at Isengard: Saruman's aloof pride, toiling orcs in every corner... So far there had been no sign that Saruman planed to dispose of him, and Saruman seemed to think Gríma's reasoning about the destination of the Rohirrim valuable, which ought to be encouraging.  
  
He should tell Saruman about Gandalf's companions, and the strength of the Rohirrim. But if there was anything which might yet prolong his value as a spy it would be the Gondorian Captain's regard for him, it might turn out to be useful yet. It might prove Gríma to be useful...  
  
_...Wrong... ...Something very wrong here and you can't see it..._ the whisper said.  
  
Grímas reveries were wiped away by Saruman returning and striding past him into a chamber next to the workroom, beckoning Gríma to follow. As he did so, grasping a candle to supplement the pale daylight entering through few and narrow windows, he saw what the orcs he had heard had been doing: Huge, iron-cast orbs lay in one corner and were, one after the other, being heaved down the stairs leading to the court yard outside. They were so heavy that even four orcs together could hardly lift them.  
  
Gríma's curiosity made it difficult to pay attention to the wizard's questions about Helm's Deep, how many days it might take the Rohirrim to get there, about the provisions they would find stored in the Hornburg, about its weaknesses...  
  
He felt slightly foolish for relating what Saruman could either fathom for himself or could make no use of. Yes, there was one tiny weakness, the drain which allowed the rivulet coming down from the mountains to leave through the Deepening Wall. Even if the iron bars could be destroyed, five men would suffice to defend the ensuing opening.  
  
While Gríma answered, Saruman proceeded to fill the one orb **still** left in middle of the room with a dark, dry substance, alike to coarse-grained black sand. Though Gríma had spent some time studying alchemy, he could not identify it. He moved in to take a closer look, so captivated by his curiosity that Saruman caught him by suprise when he grabbed the wrist holding the candle stick and pushed it away from the iron sphere.  
  
As always Saruman did not waste one moment or word on remonstrance or warning, but the expression that passed over his face for just a moment... Trepidation? It had passed too quickly for Gríma to be sure of it, but surely it was the closest he had ever seen to fear on the wizards face. What would have happened if the candle had touched this innocuous looking substance? Something dramatic enough to intimidate a maiar. If Gríma turned now and held the flame to the powder...  
  
It was too late, Saruman's servants closed the iron sphere and hauled it away. Gríma felt the skin on his back crawl. Where had such a mad impulse come from? He followed Saruman towards a doorway, concentrating on searching further disclosures.  
  
"But even if the walls were to fall, it would take numbers beyond imagination to take the fortress. Thousands!"  
  
"Ten thousand." Saruman's reply was cool and calm as always, but there seemed in it a hint of pride. What did he plan? All the Dunlanders and Orcs in Rohan combined did not even come close to such a number. Gríma said so while following Saruman past the pedestal holding the palantir and onto a balcony overlooking the circle of Isengard.  
  
Saruman did not answer, nor did he have too. The answer rose up from below them, from the court yard dimly lit by the failing light of the sinking sun.  
  
At first Grímas mind refused to take in what his senses tried to tell. Whatever it was down in the yard, it could not be what his eyes tried to convince him of. The part directly below him was the best lit, and there was no denying that down there were Uruk-hai, a large troop of them, it had to be far more than hundred. Gríma had had no notion that Saruman had bred so many of them. And beside them, in the dimmer light - another troop. And another.  
  
Finally it sunk in what the court yard was filled with, what it was that moved like a thin layer of water flowing over a bed of rocks. Helms and sword and shields and pikes and banners rising everywhere as Uruk-hai shifted and moved in their eagerness to set forth, to find something to kill. To find humans to kill. Realization ran icy fingers over Gríma's back and up his neck, and suddenly he knew with dead certainty what had felt so wrong. So _many_ fires, so _many_ trees cut down, so _much_ smoke and orc- stink... Saruman's speech was drowned out by the incoherent tumult in his head. Only when the monstrous army began to stream out of the court yard and into the twilight did Gríma perceive that his face was wet.  
  
If he had thought about it, he probably wouldn't have managed to bring himself to a decision. But now all his skills to dissect and weigh and calculate were shattered, and there were no thoughts left, only knowledge. Knowledge that the humans of Rohan were going to be mowed down like so much grass. Knowledge that even with the walls standing, their chances would be scarce. And the walls would not hold, Saruman had made sure of that. _Gríma_ had made sure of that when he told the Maiar about the one weakness in the only defense that stood between a few hundred fragile human bodies and ten thousand advancing Uruk-hai.  
  
Gríma did not know with what Saruman had filled those spheres, but clearly it was to hold the power to undo the strongest walls, and fire was the key to that power. He knew the stairway to which the orcs had lugged the spheres... he paused for a moment, then snatched up a beaker. He forced himself to walk down the stairs with his habitual blend of arrogance and servitude.  
  
_Don't hide what you are doing. You are only heeding Saruman's will, as always._  
  
He knew that it would work; even if his bluntness wouldn't be proof enough of his authorization, even if there was against all odds an orc who would actually bother to _think_ about wether or not Saruman's human minion acted on the order of his master, _nobody_ ever bothered Saruman with questions. Even orcs were clever enough to know that that was a certain way to pain.  
  
A few steps away from the foot of the stairway was the siege equipment that the last contingent of Uruk-hai would transport. And there were the spheres... with a sinking feeling Gríma realized that he didn't have the strength to open the cast iron vessels, and even if he had - it would seem unnatural; he never soiled his hands with heavy labour.  
  
_Oh well._  
  
He took care to keep his voice steady and cool as he called for a nearby orc to open the orb. He was relieved to see that the orc obeyed with the usual unquestioning obedience, but even so he had to keep his hands in the shadows of his wide garments to hide their shivering while he filled the beaker. He calmly ordered the orc to close the container and turned back to the stairs, half expecting Saruman to stand behind him, to come down the stairs, to stand on the balcony looking down on him... on his way up the stairs, shielded from all eyes, he lowered his arm and let the wide folds of his vestments slide over the beaker, then walked to his rooms, grateful for all the years of veiling his emotions, his pain and fears which now allowed him to lock up the chaos inside under the mask of the obedient, always dilligent servant...  
  
***************  
  
When Gríma reached his room his hands were shaking so badly as to make it difficult to put down the beaker onto his desk without tipping it and spilling its contents.  
  
Gríma leaned against the wall and slowly sank down as his knees gave out under him. Deafened by the tumult of random thoughts in his head he slowly pulled a piece of cloth from his sleeve and began wrapping it around his fingers - tighter, tighter until the tips of his fingers turned blue and cold while he fought to grasp hold of one of the thoughts whirling through his mind.  
  
The army.  
  
He had not realized it then, but that had been the smell he had been unable to place. That stink, like to that of orcs, but different still, underlain with a reek of spoiled earth, like too little ground covering too much carrion.  
  
So.  
  
The Rohirrim would fall, all and sundry.  
  
Éowyn would die.  
  
Faramir would die.  
  
Good thing then that Gríma had not cared for his attention, was it not.  
  
Éowyn... he realized now that even fleeing from Edoras still he had hoped to somehow gain enough power, to somehow be of enough service to Saruman...  
  
His service to Saruman.  
  
Well, that was at its end. What use for a spy and traitor with no Rohirrim alive to spy out or betray? Like a parasite killing its host Gríma had destroyed what kept him alive. Even if Gríma had any influence left...  
  
Faramir.  
  
The only one left whom Gríma might have a chance to manipulate. The only living creature Gríma could recall to look at him without disgust. The only one to care for his life and well-being. And he would soon be dead.  
  
So, what was left? What was left of all he had been, counselor, spy, scribe, scholar, distant admirer hoping against all hope?  
  
Slowly, he released the cloth around his fingers and stared down at his numb fingertips as if seeing them for the first time. A shudder run through his body, then another, and then his whole body was being shaken.  
  
Shaken with laughter.  
  
Valar, it was _riotous_. There was _nothing_ left, nothing left to loose. Gríma might as well jump out of the window right now or start writing "Sauron fornicates with sheep" all over the walls of Orthanc or light a little bonfire and pour that amusing grey substance into it to lend an air of intrepid scholarly experimentation to his last moments.  
  
Gríma laughed as if his sanity had finally decided that it was fed up with this sorry creature and left for good, tears streaming from his eyes, his hands braced onto the floor to keep himself from collapsing entirely.  
  
It was all the same, he was free to do what he whished, for none of it would make a difference. It was all over.  
  
Finally, his laughter died down to occasional sobs.  
  
Well, seeing as he could, at long last, do as he pleased, he might as well piss against Saruman's leg before taking his leave of this dismal world.  
  
Throwing those pellets onto a fire and see what happened - well, that was a nice dramatic thought, yes, but as for cunning it was more suited to a straw-headed Rohan warrior than to a scholar.  
  
Gríma took a few deep breaths to calm himself, then looked towards the desk at the strange substance he had so rashly acquired.  
  
Fire would activate it, and Gríma had spent enough time dabbling in alchemy to know that it wouldn't start reciting epics at the enemy. The crucial question was, how large was its destructive potential?  
  
He stood and went to his desk to cut a thin strip of paper from one of his scrolls, then soaked it in lamp-oil. He chose an empty corner of his room to spread the strip on the ground and place one single pellet, no larger than a seed, on one end of the paper. He stood and looked around, then moved all oil lamps to the opposite corner of the room. The beaker in one hand and a lamp in the other he carefully lit the far end of the paper, then scurried out of the room, dragging the door shut behind him and pressing himself to the wall beside it.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Nothing?  
  
Still nothing.  
  
Gríma began to calculate how long the paper would take to burn away completely, then jumped at a crash from his room, as loud as if something heavy had been smashed against a wall.  
  
In the corner he found not a trace of ashes, only a scorched circle on the floor, as large nearly as the span of his hand. After some thinking he emptied one of the oil lamps, set another strip of paper as a wick, and poured as much as a spoonful of pellets into it.  
  
This time the thunderclap from his room was accompanied by the crash of smashed pottery, and he found the shards of the lamp in all the four corners as well as embedded in various of the room's furnishings.  
  
He thoughtfully stared into emptiness while his fingers ran along the sharp edges of a lamp shard imbedded in the back of one of his books.  
  
There was no way to leave Orthanc while the army was still blocking the way out, and they would take at the very least another fifteen minutes to leave the fortress itself, almost an hour to leave the immediate surroundings of Isengard. And then... if he was very lucky, he would manage to cause enough havoc to get to Raven and flee. And after that? There was only one place left to go to if he deserted Saruman - only one man to go to. And that one man was surrounded by hundreds of Rohirrim who would like nothing better than to kill Gríma on sight.  
  
Another deep breath and Gríma forced his thoughts away from that.  
  
He would go to Helm's Deep, that was decided and not to be revised any more. He put the book down and began to tear a broad strip of linen from one of his bedsheets, then another one and one more. The siege equipment... He poured mounds of the darkish-grey pellets onto the cloth. What he had seen of the contraptions consisted of ladders of different size. There had been hulking shapes containing iron cogwheels... they would use the ladders to breach the walls. Gríma rose to extinguish one of the oil lamps which lit his room and pull out the wicks. Assume that he could escape to Helm's Deep, that he was not killed on sight, that he could prevent the walls from being destroyed. What then to do about thousands of warriors ready to breach the walls in ten different places at once? He burried the wicks in the grey mounds and started to wrap the cloth around the first mound, taking care that a long end of the wick stuck out.  
  
How could the ladders be destroyed? A sally into that sea of well-armed and battle-frenzied Uruks would be madness. Burning arrows? Too easy to extinguish, and it would take dozens to have even a small effect. Gríma knotted the ends of the cloth securely, then went to work on the next mound.  
  
Catapults then. Would there be catapults at Helms Deep? Given the Eorlingas' traditional distrust towards anything less straightforward than to rush forth and attack, it was not likely. Stones... could be found in the caves. Not very good ones, but sufficient to do some damage. Of course, if he could find a way to use this mysterious grey substance combined with fire....  
  
Grímas hands stilled on the third bundle and he stared sightlessly into the shadowy corners of his room. Then he resumed his task with a new air of purpose to his movements.  
  
*********************  
  
Gríma made his way to the laboratory with the three bundles hidden next to his skin - he was _almost_ completly sure that the warmth of a human body would not suffice to ignite the explosive. He took a way which led him past the study where he knew Saruman to keep the palantir. Walking slowly and soundlessly, he could hear Saruman's voice in a soft murmur and something else... something dark, just beyond the edge of his hearing. It was not so much a sound as a weight of presence, a conviction that there was somebody standing behind him, breathing down his neck...  
  
It passed when Gríma walked on and the whispering in his head diminished. The laboratory and its surroundings were empty, as always when Saruman was not using it. It took Gríma only a few minutes to find what he was looking for. Wrapping it into bundles and securing it beneath his clothes took longer - he had to make sure that nothing would spill out; this particular compound would do serious harm to his skin upon touching it.  
  
_You could still turn back._  
  
He hesitated for a moment at the thought, then left and headed for Saruman's study.  
  
Yes, he could still return the chemicals, return to his room and wait for new orders. And then what? If he was very lucky, Saruman might yet find some use for his puppet which would make it expidient to postpone killing Gríma. Saruman might even succeed and, in the ensuing sense of elation, reward his servant. But with what? Gríma's step faltered and his eyes closed in pain when the words _leave none alive_ echoed in his head. There was little enough in this world which Gríma wanted as it was, and that one point of light was not only at an unattainable distance, but about to be extinguished. If Saruman succeded, what could the place Middle-Earth would become hold that was worth having?  
  
There it was again, that shade in his mind, and then Saruman's voice. From what Gríma remembered of the room, the palantir would be to the left of the door way... He looked around, then slipped two of the three bundles behind some of the heavy black structures which framed the door way. The wicks showed only by a finger's breadth, just long enough to be lighted with one of the candles which illuminated the hall way. A moment later Gríma was walking towards the stairs which would lead him outside, to the stables.  
  
When he was almost at the stairway, he coult hear steps behind him, the shuffling gait of an orc. Not a large one, from the sound of the steps. Gríma felt his skin crawl up his spine and had to force himself not to walk more quickly. Certainly the foul creature was just walking this way by coincidence, certainly it had not been sent by Saruman to summon Gríma to the wizard...  
  
He heard no blast, only felt a giants hand smash him against a wall - and then sound and his faculty to panic returned as stones and rubble and dust and sharp shards rained down all around him with a racket that was an assault in itself. Panic seized him, and his heart and innards tried to explode his chest to escape. The tower, he had miscalculated, or the wall had been too badly damaged, and now the tower had collapsed and he was buried under it, buried alive, and he would die in this darkness, and his death might take days to come...  
  
A panicked breath shot a stab of pain through his chest and Gríma gasped, his eyes starting to water. Without thinking he tried to move his hand to his chest and found that he _could_ move it, though under pain and exertion of all his strength. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to try and push himself up. This time the pain blackened out his vision... But he had endured worse, certainly he had, even if he could not remember when and where, and he would endure worse if he didn't escape quickly... finally he managed to pull his legs free, to crawl out under the rubble and pull himself upright by bracing himself on the fallen stones and shards.  
  
When he looked around, his vision obscured by blood, he saw that part of what had weighted his legs down had been the body of the orc which had been walking behind him only seconds ago. It had protected him from the worst of the blast. Well, the creature was clearly beyond being thanked. Gríma groaned as he forced himself to stand up. The cruel pain in his upper body whenever he moved almost convinced him to just remain lying there, but he knew that there was little time.  
  
Gríma wiped away the blood running down his face and started to limp down the stairs when a whisper crept over the back of his consciousness. The skin on his back tried to crawle away at the sensation of this voice that seemed to reach his mind without passing through his ears.  
  
_Wormtongue_  
  
He clenched his teeth. He'd be damned before he answered to that name again.  
  
_Gríma. Come To Me._  
  
He was telling himself that he knew this voice to be a traitor's song even more than his own was, that he would not obey, that he would move away in a moment, but the pain in his chest seemed to dull while he listened, and to lessen even more while he moved towards the rubble which had been Saruman's room...  
  
_Gríma. You Can Still Have Her. I Can Give Her To You. I Can Give You Even Better Than Her._  
  
Something inside of Gríma rebelled. After all the pain and dissapointment his 'bargain' with Saruman had brought him, this thing could promise him the moon and the stars and every single book of Middle Earth into the bargain for all that he cared. He dragged the black cloth from the rubble and threw it over the red orb.  
  
The voice retreated from his mind with a last angry snarl, and it was only then that Gríma realized that it hadn't been a voice so much as the ghost of a presence. The hair on his neck stood on end as he realized what this was - to whose mind he had shut his own just in time. Valar, no wonder that Saruman had succumbed to it... An unexpected twinge of compassion for his teacher and mentor of old shot through him. Saruman... he looked around to see a dirty bundle of costly cloth lying under the rubble, a bundle that had, half an eternity ago, been the most awesome presence on all of Middle Earth.  
  
Voices of orcs from a higher level of the tower shook Gríma from his thoughts. There was no time left to dally. Without further thought he turned and limped towards the stairs and the stable as fast as his battered body would allow.  
  
Raven had been skittish from the first moment of entering Isengard - no wonder, the smell of the Orcs was unpleasant enough to Gríma, and weren't horses supposed to have keener senses than men? Now, after the blast of the fire pellets shaking the whole building, Gríma could hear the nervous whinying even before entering the stables.  
  
"That makes two of us who don't like it here anymore. A kindred soul at last."  
  
A bleak grin managed to sneak onto Grímas face in spite of himself. Strange how a heavy blow to the head helped to bring out the irony of things. He moved towards Raven's box as quickly as the pain would allow him, and the mare seemed to calm down somewhat, but kept pawing the ground restlessly.  
  
"Yes, we're saying fare-thee-well to all these nice people now. Time to go to Helm's Deep where they don't think that black rock is a good thing to decorate rooms with. Likely they've already found something to carve horseheads into. What a predictable lot."  
  
Yes, predicting the course of their deeds had always been all too easy, and so was foreseeing their response to the return of the hated traitor Wormtongue - the place would boil like a stirred ants' nest. Would being able to predict them mean being able to keep them from killing him when he arrived among them once more? _If_ he arrived...  
  
While Raven calmed down at the sound of his soft voice mumbling nonsense, Gríma looked around for something to use to get onto her back - he knew without trying that in his present state he had no chance of climbing onto her back unaided.  
  
No boxes or barrels in sight, but down the aisle were a few cubes of straw. Despite their usefullness Gríma allowed himself a sneer. The Rohirrim might be barbarians, but at least they were _tidy_ barbarians - no one in Edoras would dream of impeding the comings and goings in the aisle by having straw laying around like this.  
  
He led Raven to the cubes and leaned heavily on her while climbing the stack. She seemed to sense his intentions and bowed her front legs enough for him to climb onto her back with as much ease as his cracked ribs would allow. Then she rose carefully and made her way to the stable doors, each step sending new jolt of pain through Gríma's body. He clenched his teeth and tried to breath as flat as possible, the night air cold after the stable's warmth. The ride to Helms Deep might take days... if he had ever felt the inclination to spend days on a horse's back, his skin covered in sweat and blood and grime while racing death to safe harbour, he might just as well have become a warrior. At least they got armour. As well as the admiration of silly girls. And he got what? The admiration of silly captains? One, anyway.  
  
Gríma leaned forward to Ravens head and whispered into her ear. "Faramir. Bring us back to Faramir. Run to him..."  
  
Raven obediently chose a path leading south, still marked from the Uruks' progress not long ago, and began to canter. She slowed down into a soft walk when she heard her rider's moan of pain, but Gríma spurred her on, using the pain to keep himself awake. He knew he would have to steer Raven clear of the army which took the same way to Helm's Deep which the two of them would travel.  
  
------------------------  
  
O.k., there you are. Great? Dismal? Author should bite off her fingers rather than continue? Author should slash Theoden with Gimli, Haldir with Gandalf and Legolas with one of the Uruks? For comments, flames, critics, plotbunnies, wishes, condemnations - see that pretty blueish review button down left? And thanks. 


	3. Chapter Two: The Road to Helms Deep

A/N:

My sincerest apologies for taking this long to update, and a thousand apologies to those who reviewed – I deserve to be shot for keeping people waiting who write me long and detailed reviews!

Also apologies to Professor Tolkien for messing around in the lovely world he created. Please, take into consideration that at least part of the fault goes to Brad Dourif for having a voice that I want to pull around me like a fluffy blanket.

Betaed by Archaic Scribe, who saved you, dear reader, a lot of confusion. And a lot of "...". Thank you thank you thank you! You did such a great job.

Okay, on with the story.

"-"-"-"-"-"-"-"-"-"-"-"

The route to Helm's Deep was a slaughter waiting to happen. The Rohirrim had obeyed their king's order and left behind almost everything valuable or dear to them, but still they carried warm clothes, blankets and food. They carried their children and even dragged behind them on carts those too old or sick to make the march on their own feet.

They spread out more and more as the weaker and more heavily burdened fell behind, and before two hours had passed the line sluggishly snaking through the foothills of Ered Nimrais was more than a mile long.

At first, Faramir waited tensely, every moment expecting an orcish attack to tear into some unprotected part of the train. However, the Rohirrim surprised him once more. Dividing into groups that constantly weaved and circled around the long train of peasant families, the riders of the Eorlingas made sure that no part of the file was ever unguarded while the single scouts farther out made sure that no attackers could close in unnoticed.

After a while Faramir relaxed enough to have leisure to ponder unsavory thoughts. His shadow was somewhere out in the planes of Rohan, alone and unprotected save for what little help Raven could lend him.

Or Saruman.

If Saruman had truly sided with Mordor, unthinkable as the idea was, what then did the Maiar, whose machines had helped to destroy Dol Guldur, have in store for the Rohirrim? What might he have in store for Gríma as soon as the darkling man had outlived his usefulness?

Faramir tried his best to dispense with such gloomy thoughts, to jest with Balimond and show encouragement to his men. They would soon need all their courage, they did not need a despondent captain to leech it away. However, it turned out that Balimond had troubled thoughts of his own.

„I can not believe that you gave Raven to that... well, whatever you would have me call him."

Faramir did not have to force the smile that crossed his face. „The Lady Éowyn told me his name is Gríma son of Galmod."

Balimond shot a confused look at him. He'd seen his young captain through enough affairs gone bad to know how it went. First enthusiasm, hopeful optimism, an attempt of seduction, maybe some precious weeks of happiness, and then... by rights Faramir should now be in the 'silent depression' phase. This unnatural cheerfulness was... disquieting.

„Faramir... I do not wish to question your judgement..."

„...but you do it anyway." Faramir actually laughed. „Balimond, if you had told me but a month ago that I would give away Raven to a known traitor, I would have questioned not only your judgement, but your sanity. Yet now... really it was the only sensible thing to do. Surely you can see that? I could not let him go without protection, and I could not protect him myself. Raven will do that for me. And she may even bring him back to me, if need be."

Balimond thought, as he had many a time, that this was much like Faramir: It did not even enter his mind that he could simply forsaking his loyalty to his unloving father, hand the responsibility for his warriors to his elder brother and following his own heart's desire for once.

„Bring him back? The Eorlingas will scarcely grant him a warm welcome."

„True. But their king granted me his life. I do not think he is a man to go back on his word. And I do have a whole company of Gondor's finest at my command. Théoden King will not wish to risk their support - not for the sake of one man, whom they can easily guard if I ordered it so." Faramir managed a half-smile. He and Balimond both knew it was likely a moot point, the chances slim that they would ever see Grima again, much less take any responsibility for his actions. However, the thought was too sweet to entirely discard.

Balimond was about to reply when he saw Boromir drawing near, clearly wishing to speak to his brother. Balimond looked to see whether Faramir wished him to run interference and distract Boromir from trying to speak with him, but Faramir had recovered his mental balance enough to face a beloved and long-missed brother. Therefore, Faramir nodded to Balimond, who returned the gesture in the secret, silent language of best friends as he spurred his horse away to join the men, giving the brothers space to talk privately.

All day Faramir had been unable to shake off a feeling of dread when thinking of the questions his elder brother might ask. Now however when he saw Boromir again, proud and upright and smiling at him, he could feel all his apprehension drop away. He jumped off Sunshine's back and walked towards Boromir, who leapt off his horse in a move mirroring that of his younger brother. When they hugged each other, for a precious moment there were no orcs, wizards of uncertain alliance, or dark realms filled with enemies; only a strong elder brother, who would shield his younger sibling against all ill.

Faramir tried to take some of this security with him when he left his brother's arms and answered his broad, happy smile.

„Little brother, it's so good to see you! All the more since I never expected you to be in Rohan - what brings you here? I hardly saw you at the feast yester eve! Is something amiss?"

Faramir smiled wryly to himself. Had he really thought that he could hide his distress from Boromir? Of course his brother had noticed, and of course he would ask. Faramir was spared from answering promptly by Sunshine, who had simply halted when her rider dismounted and was now using the spare moment to sniff the ground in search of a few blades of grass which might have escaped the trampling feet of the humans around her. Faramir had to step back a bit and grab her reins so she would keep walking along with them. He shook his head apologetically at his mistake. He was so accustomed to riding a bondmare, who obeyed his merest thought rather than unsubtle signals of foot and reign, he had let his attention wonder to what weighted most acutely upon his thought as Boromir neared the subject that most offended his emotional comfort.

Boromir looked from the dun colored mare to nervous Faramir with concern. „I have not seen Raven this day; where is she? No ill has befallen her, I trust?"

Well, there was no getting around this. „She is in good health," Faramir paused a moment before regaining his nerve to continue, "and on her way to Isengard, I believe."

„Isengard! Surely you would not send her to Saru - oh." And there was a whole world of meaning in that simple 'oh'. Boromir was shocked, but his wit was quick. "You mean that slimy traitor stole her? How? You always told me it was impossible to steal a bondmare!"

"It is impossible." Faramir said as he looked straight ahead while he suppressed his pain at the epitaph and waited for Boromir to draw his own conclusions.

"But then I do not - " Boromir's voice dwindled away as realization came. "Faramir, no!"

"Yes."

"You gave her to him? How could you do that, you will never see her again! You would not ev- " He swallowed what had almost become a complaint. In the past, he had never resented for a moment that Raven carried only Faramir, but that was it – Faramir had never given Raven to anybody, so Boromir easily accepted that Raven was the one possession which they would not share. And now this?

„Faramir, you always told me that bondmares cannot be lent out like other horses!"

Faramir cast a glance around, grateful that no Rohirrim riders were near, only some of Balimond's men, who all had suddenly acquired some distance or developed a keen interest in something in opposite direction to the sons of Denethor.

„It's true, I never gave Raven to anyone, not even you, because she is bound to me, not owned by me. I can ask her to take care of somebody..." he faltered, but forced himself to go on. If Boromir could not understand, then who could? „... somebody of meaning to me. That I did. I send her with Grima so she would protect him where I could not do that."

Boromir shook his head and sighed the sigh of all elder brother's confronted with their younger sibling's follies. Faramir used his brother's stunned state of mind to proceed.

"I never gave her to you because you never were without a single shelter nor ally in all the world, without one safe place to go to. I could not - "

"No ally nor shelter? What of that wizard Saruman? What of the whole tower of Orthanc?"

"The tower of Orthanc is probably filled with orcs and Uruk-hai, and do you really think Saruman considers himself Grima's ally? He used Grima as nothing more than a tool - "

"As a spy and poisoner on his own king and kin!"

"I doubt there's one Rohan who will call Grima his kin, but yes, he spied on his king. And what is the use of a discovered spy? Unless Saruman has another use for Grima, and I do not see what it could be, I think Saruman a danger rather than ally to Grima."

Boromir was uncharacteristically silent for a moment. When he spoke, Faramir could hear the restraint and foreboding in his brother's voice. "You are very eager to protect that... that man. You were before, too, when you stepped unarmed in front of an enraged king in order to aid him."

Faramir could hear the unspoken question in his brother's voice. He saw what was going on in his brother's mind. Boromir knew him well enough to suspect the reasons for his actions, but preferred not to have his surmise confirmed. Faramir was more than willing to grant that wish.

„There was no one else to protect him, and he too, was unarmed."

Boromir sighed. „And how could my gentle-hearted little brother ever suffer to see anyone stand alone! But I believe he was not so all alone. Aragorn ranger was about to jump to his protection, too. You just beat him to it."

„The ranger who is also heir to the line of Isildur, you mean? What think you of him?"

Boromir was silent for a while with an expression of contemplation, which Faramir saw but seldom on the face of his brother, man of swift decisions and unhesitating deeds that he had been all his life.

„I think... if there is a man worthy and able to claim the throne of Gondor, it is him."

Faramir almost stopped dead in his tracks. Boromir might not share his father's resentment at the mere rumor of

an heir to the throne of Gondor, but Boromir did share in his pride on the hard-won achievements of the stewards. And if Faramir's ears did not deceive him, here was Boromir, contemplating to step down in favor of one who had never been there to defend Minas Tirith against the hordes of Mordor?

„He must be a singular man if you say that."

„He is."

The somber expression on Boromir's face passed. „And so must that darkling man be for you to give him Raven. Do you think that he will turn from Saruman?"

„No, but I hope that he might turn from him." Faramir smiled sadly. „I know it is a faint hope at best, but..." the thought of how long he had hoped for Denethor's love moved in his mind, but he could not bring himself to speak of it.

„Ah, Faramir," Boromir said with an exasperated sigh, "Even if he turns from his true master, that would only make him a traitor twice. How could you ever trust one who betrayed..."

Boromir's voice faded, much as Faramir's words had only a moment earlier. It was as if an unbidden thought had taken hold. His gaze seemed to turn inward for a moment, and his hand moved towards his breast before he forced it down again.

Faramir watched his elder brother closely. There was something different about him. He wasn't quite as quick to answer as he used to be, and though there was no sign of insecurity, still he seemed a bit less convinced of himself than he had before they parted company last. No wonder really, after months spent all by himself, and all the things he must have seen... Suddenly, Faramir felt an unexpected twinge of envy.

„There is little gain in worrying about what might never be. Better tell me of your companions and travels while we yet have time."

„And where would you have me start?"

„Start with what touched you most."

„Lothlórien, and the Lady Galadriel."

They both laughed at the quickness of his response.

„Tell me about her!"

„She is..." Boromir struggled for words, "Beautiful. But not like a woman is. Her beauty is frightening, like..." Boromir again stumbled over his tongue again, having never been accustomed to describing anything but the strength of an enemy army.

The words reminded Faramir of a scene he had once shared with his brother, and he spoke without meaning to: "Like a thunder storm above the mountains, seen from the very top of Minas Tirith."

„Yes – no! There is...there is such a power in her, even when she remains still. It isn't uncontrolled like a storm, but sometimes you feel as if there could be a storm... as if that power might... might hurt you - and then there are moments when she seems so kind, and she laughs and smiles, almost like a young girl." Boromir laughed at his poor attempts at describing places and creatures he had never spent a thought on before his search for Imladris. „Oh little brother, you should have seen her! You would find the words to do her justice, if any mortal men can."

„I wish I had seen her, too." _And that I could tell Grima about her_. The thought came to his mind without his bidding, and he forced himself to go on. „Tell me more. Tell me everything you have seen!"

Boromir smiled, and began to tell of the Mines of Moria, of cave trolls and endless halls and the shimmer of mithril in the depths. Faramir listened enthralled, but somewhere in the back of his mind there was the yearning to see all these wonders - and to share them with some one at his side.

Faramir listened, enthralled, yet somewhere in the back of his mind there was the yearning to see all these wonders - and to share them with someone at his side.

Yet, in the end, Boromir had questions of his own.

„It seems so much longer than just a few months since I left Minas Tirith. Tell me, what news of the battle? And what of him?"

No need to spell out the name. Faramir was grateful, for even the name of Denethor had become painful to him.

„There is not much good to tell, I fear. The strange light from that room..." Boromir nodded, remembering the evening when they both had witnessed the eerie red shine for the first time, and the nightmares that had plagued Faramir all through that night.

"I saw it again, and not just once. Its occurrence has been growing more frequent. As for the battle, there is little I can tell, for I left Gondor shortly after you did."

Faramir had to force himself to go on. „Boromir, I am banned from Gondor. Y... " He could not bring „your father" past his throat, and „our" was out of question. „Denethor does not wish me to return to Gondor, to live there any longer."

Boromir's eyes narrowed with pained surprise, but still he was trying to find a way out. „But certainly this cannot be forever. He can not have meant that."

Faramir simply looked ahead, concentrating on keeping his face under control, and not trusting himself to keep his voice at an even tone.

„Even if he meant it, he will change his mind. He must. Surely even he will behold your merit upon seeing how you have earned the respect of our most important allies. And," with a forced smile Boromir continued, „all the more so when he sees that you might strengthen this alliance once more!"

Faramir's jaw slackened at that, but before he could find words, his brother continued.

„Truly, Faramir, she is a jewel! Beautiful and honorable and of kingly descent - and she seems to favor you greatly! You are lucky indeed!"

Faramir shook his head, knowing his next Faramir shook his head, knowing his next word would shatter his brother's happy vision - well, slightly disturb it, anyway. Boromir had never been a man to easily let a promising idea go.

„You are perfectly right, brother. She is fair and true and noble, and even more than all that. And I am not a man made for women, as you well know."

Boromir sighed and shook his head. „But Faramir, certainly you will not cling on to that foolish notion when such a women is within your reach! What man could possibly want for more?"

Faramir bit down on his tongue to keep from telling his brother that regardless of what any man might ask for, what he yearned for was a distrustful traitor with an aversion towards arms only rivaled by his lack of talent for them.

„What I do not wish for, brother mine, is to buy the acceptance of the Lord Denethor by mistreating an honorable woman. And mark my words, mistreatment it would be to use her to succeed to the demands of a master who neither expects nor whishes me to succeed!" He had managed to keep his voice even for most of this, but to the end he could not keep a slight tremor at bay.

"Boromir, I... There is more to tell. Should I try to return to Minas Tirith, I will find myself cut off officially. As of yet", Faramir took another deep breath, like one preparing himself for a dive into cold water, „it suits the Lord Denethor to not officially pronounce me the product of infidelity."

Faramir stopped walking when he felt that Boromir was no longer beside him. He turned and saw him rooted to the ground, clasping the hilt of his sword without knowing and with an expression on his face that would have sent an Uruk-hai running for the hills. Boromir stared at his brother, aghast at the news as well as the stony manner in which it was delivered. Then he saw the look in Faramir's eyes. The next moment, he held his brother and rested his brow against Faramir's as if the touch would allow him to take his brother's pain.

„This is lunacy. Even if not for your true-dreaming, to believe that our mother would even think of looking at another man is insane." Boromir lifted his head to look into Faramir's eyes and was relieved to see some of the sadness gone. „Denethor may call you a Woses' changeling for all that I care. You are my brother, not only through Finduilas but through Denethor also."

Faramir returned the embrace, feeling a weight lifted that he had not been aware of till it was gone. He had never thought to fear that Boromir might share Denethor's views, yet to hear him reject them, to dismiss Denethor's words so harshly... his brother had changed through his travels.

Faramir took a deep breath and decided that steering away from this source of pain was probably the best.

„Tell me about your companions, they seem to be a most rare set - elf, dwarf, Maiar and heir to the throne of Gondor, Balimond tells me."

Boromir, probably as eager to avoid a fruitless debate as his brother, delved into a hymn of praise on the valor and hardiness of his companions.

Faramir was eager to hear about all of them as he had been always willing to learn about Elves and Dwarves. However, what he looked forward to most was to meet again with his old friend Gandalf, and to find out more about the chief of the Dunedain.

As he listened to his brother, Faramir was not surprised to find that the sudden appearance of an heir to the

old line of Elendil occupied Boromir's thoughts. While Boromir thought highly of the ranger, he yet expected Aragorn to find the path to the throne a difficult one, and doubted whether a king who had grown up far from Gondor and knew nothing of the country would make a good ruler.

As for the later, Faramir really didn't care - he would be quite happy to find himself another notch distant from the throne. There would always be advisors who knew how the country should be taken care of and if nothing else, one could avoid a great deal of mistakes by not following their counsel.

But Aragorn's path to the throne would not be easy. Denethor had spent his life defending the realm against Mordor, and had always been harsh on those few who dared to question his supreme authority.

As Faramir's attention to Boromir drifted into despondency, Boromir returned to Eómer in the hope of finding a more favorable response to his hopes of a personal union between the ruling houses of Rohan and Gondor.

Faramir was left to his own thoughts, which inevitably drifted back to what uncertain events may lay ahead for all of them. He longed to talk to Gandalf the White who had returned from the shadows of death, but decided to postpone this until his mind had calmed. He knew that in his present state, the wizard would behold his worries on first glance.

Faramir allowed a rueful smile cross his face. Knowing Gandalf, the old pilgrim would see through the mind of his young friend one way or the other. Still, he felt that he preferred to find some peace of mind before facing the wizard's attentive and most penetrating gaze.

"-"-"-"-"-"-"-"-"-"-"-"

There was little that nightfall brought in which Faramir had not grown accustomed to or found familiar. There was light and warmth seeping away while those around him were either too busy or too scared to admire the changing colors thrown on the hills that seemed to stand as tall protectors all around them.

Families huddled together, warriors camped in the groups they were accustomed to over the years, and the old and ailing were seeking warmth from the sparse fires which could be lit. There was little wood here as anywhere in Rohan, and the Rohirrim had too much sense to waste wood on trying to warm food. The people of Rohan ate cold provisions, before lying down on cold ground.

Faramir was accustomed to sleeping wrapped in his cloak with a saddle for a pillow, and so had handed out his covers to those who had greater need for them.

He told himself that he should hand out the quilt too, but could not bring himself to do it. Someone might recognize it and be offended to be offered the despised traitors goods. They could raise unwelcome questions from such a gesture of kindness and there was no such thing as men too tired or too frightened to gossip. More importantly, he needed it to keep the few books he had taken from Grima's room protected against the dew.

The bundle was bulky, the edge of a book softened by the fabric and clearly palpable against him. Faramir's hand slid over the quilt. His eyes drifted shut as his fingers drifted over the cloth, following the seams along their pattern of stars and caressing the fabric he touched as his eyes gazed at the night sky above him.

Stars. Today he knew that his fate was in his own hands, but as a child, having lost the gentle guidance of a mother and never knowing much paternal kindness from his father, he had sought shelter in imagining that the stars would guide his life. He had imagined that his fate was written somewhere in the brilliance of the stars, and that it made sense - every pain and loss leading to some goal, serving some unknown purpose.

Long ago he had learned from his brother to find his own purposes, but what purpose there could be in finding his other half only to loose him again he could not make out. The thought confused him.

Should Mordor and the Dark Lord be defeated, Saruman would fall with them, and Grima would be nothing but one dead pawn amongst many. Yet, if the evil of Mordor should win whatever would become of Grima? 'Twas unlikely that Faramir would live to learn the result. Like the stars of evening and morning, the rise of one could only come with the falling of the other.

He sighed, closing his eyes, drawing a fistful of the quilt towards his face and deeply inhaling the aroma. Wax and ink, soap and something darker beneath all those scents.

Who knew? Maybe the stars, his purposes or whatever forces played their games with the lives of men would lead them together again. If not, then at least there would be the memory of that one shy kiss and a frail body beneath his fingers. If only the contact had not been so short, so hurried. If only there had been the time to come just a little closer to that body and those trembling lips!

Next time. There would have to be a next time. Faramir refused to believe anything less.

His own yearning was one thing, but poor Grima! From what little he knew of the pallid advisor, he might have known neither lover nor friend in all his life. The thought that he would die without ever recalling one moment of passion or one kind word as his own was unbearable.

They would have to meet again.

No, they _would_ meet again. And when that time presented itself, Faramir would call upon all his skill in not letting Grima slip away. He would find a way to make Grima want him, too.

He didn't notice when he slipped into sleep and wishful thinking gave way to dreams.

"-"-"-"-"-"-"-"-"-"-"-"

As the days crept by slowly, Faramir's admiration and respect for the race of Eorl increased ever more.

Dragging themselves along from sunrise to nightfall, there was not one among the Rohirrim to complain of hardships. With his men under the authority of Balimond and Boromir, and further convinced that the riders of Rohan would not miss a single fighter, Faramir searched out Gandalf, eager to hear as much of his old teacher's adventures as the maiar might be willing to speak of.

Faramir found a ready welcome, and soon he discovered that Gandalf the White was everything that Gandalf

the Grey had ever been: willing enough to talk, yet never disclosing what he preferred to keep to himself. Willing enough to listen, but never pressing Faramir to talk about things which the young man preferred to keep to himself.

Yet, Faramir found himself telling the white wizard more than he had first intended to, without regret. When he finally left Gandalf, he felt a strange sense of hopefulness inside him, though he could not say what the Maiar had said to cause it.

When Faramir left Gandalf to his own thoughts, he felt a need to be active, but neither wished nor saw a need to rejoin with his men.

Soon, he was following Eowyn's example and employed his mare to carry those about to be overcome by exhaustion, or to pull carts carrying provisions or wounded.

"-"-"-"-"-"-"-"-"-"-"-"

Eówyn savored the chance to spur her horse forward in a full gallop, while bringing two children to the front of the train where they might rest and await for their parents. Of course, giving the siblings a half hour to rest and play was all her intent. She certainly was not trying to steal a glance at the ranger!

Keeping her small hopes to herself, she was careful to only let her eyes glide over him and then settle on Théoden. She was, after all, only a dutiful sister-daughter worrying for the health of the recently recovered king, Eówyn reasoned. She did not intend to commit a foolish, undignified act like falling in love with another man to get over Faramir.

Which was a good thing, for if she would do that, then said man would of course fall madly in love with her and be heartbroken when he found out her true designs.

She looked ahead and sighed. She had spent little of her thought on men in past years, but still she was a woman and had indulged in dreams of golden princes and undying love and maybe kings in disguise, too.

She hadn't dreamed of the disguised kings being promised to another with whom she could not dare to compare, nor of the golden princes falling for slimy little traitors with whom Eówyn would not dream to compare herself.

True, she may have spent more time on practicing to fight and dreaming of glory than on thinking up new gowns, but that did not mean that she was blind to the fact that fate had granted her some beauty. Inspiring no admiration in two exceptional men in the course of less than two weeks was not something she had ever had to accommodate herself with. It was almost enough to wish...

Eówyn shook herself. By the Valar, what was she thinking? Of course she did not wish for Grima! She had never wished for his attention, and when it was forced upon her it had revolted and insulted her. A slimy, pale weakling of a traitor! How often she had wished to be freed off him! She should be happy to have that wish

granted. She was happy for it. Truly she was!

_Still, you were everything to him. He would have done anything...anything._

Eówyn squashed the thought before it was complete. This was unworthy of the Lady of Rohan. Her people were in great peril, she had no business to worry about men like some lovesick chambermaid.

She became aware of someone watching her and looked over at her brother, Eómer, and saw him conversing with Boromir as they both rode, watching at her with deliberation. The two men smiled when Eowyn's eyes met theirs, and Boromir lowered his head in a gesture of respect.

Eówyn had difficulties in responding with a smile and a nod. Her heart raced. There could be no doubt they were talking about her. And why would her brother not do such a thing?

Eómer was no fool and certainly could not have missed that his sister had talked a great deal with Faramir during the last weeks as well as during this day's ride, too. Both the men must have noticed that.

Was it unlikely that they had formed the same hopes which she herself had entertained before learning of Faramir's preferences?

But surely Boromir knew about his brother's nature, or did he not?

Eówyn looked around and saw Faramir riding a little apart from his men, lost in despondent thought.

Eówyn watched Faramir with worry. He had seemed quite upset by Wormtongue's banishment. This emotion was only natural, she supposed, if any aspect of Faramirs unfathomable attraction to the traitor could be called natural.

Last night at the feast, Faramir had avoided speaking to anyone, even his brother whom he must not have seen for months. Today there was a strange contradiction to Faramir's manner. Whenever he spoke to his lieutenant, he seemed to be in high spirits, but then when he believed himself an unobserved, a shadow of melancholy would cross his features, as if a cloud had momentarily hidden the face of the sun.

Then, as if Faramir had sensed her look, he lifted his eyes to her and smiled.

Despite everything Eówyn had no difficulty to returning his smile when she saw how it brightened his face. He nudged his horse over to her and greeted her with his usual air of good humor. Eowyn's smile went awry upon realizing the conjectures this scene must inspire in those watching from horseback not too far away from them.

"May I hope from your smile that my presence is welcome, Lady of Rohan?"

"It is very welcome, Captain of Gondor, though I fear it may lead some to conclusions which will be far from welcome to you."

Faramir's eyes flickered, but he was too much a warrior to betray his awareness by turning his head towards his brother. He released a sigh which turned into a laugh.

"My brother?"

" Our brothers." Eówyn returned with a companionable chuckle. "Does your brother not know of your preferences?"

Faramir shook his head in a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "He knows of them, still he has not yet despaired of a woman curing me of my mistaken ways."

Now it was Eowyn's turn to laugh in spite of everything. "Then I should feel flattered he believes me capable of saving you from your strange desires?"

Faramir's expression turned earnest. "You should feel yourself flattered indeed, for I believe that if I could and wanted to be saved - "

Suddenly Eówyn felt a foolish wave of fear at what words might come and quickly interrupted him.

"But you wish not for it."

Faramir's troubled, unhappy gaze was answer enough. Eówyn felt a strange pain clenching around her heart and struggled for a light tone of voice.

"I would not wish for you to be untrue to yourself, not even so far as to conceal your nature, but I fear that to be expedient. My brother - he can be rigid in his ways... "

Eowyn's voice faltered as she realized that she had, for the first in a long time, she had spoken other than in praise of her adored brother. Moreover, to a man who should be no more than a political ally, too. Was she being disloyal?

Faramir's voice broke through her thoughts.

"Probably no more rigid than my own father. Eómer will not learn about my strange bent from me - and neither from my brother, I can venture. Though Boromir has not yet given up on me becoming normal one of these days, he never speaks of my deviation to anyone."

Eówyn felt a twinge of compassion when she heard the sorrow Faramir tried to conceal.

"I am surprised. I believed this to be not uncommon among soldiers – it is not so among the Rohirrim."

"No more is it uncommon among Gondor's soldiers to turn towards their comrades in the absence of women. Nevertheless, to prefer men even when women are close is rare. Though not all disapprove, not all accept it, either."

Eówyn thought she could hear something of a shadow in Faramir's voice, unlike to his usual cheerful demeanor. She steered away from this difficult subject and began to talk about Aragorn, his qualities as a leader and possibly, as a king.

Her voice faded as she heard shouts of inquisition, then of warning. Screams of pain from the riders which patrolled one of the hills among which the slow group of fugitives meandered towards Helm's Deep echoed through the air.

They both watched as the elven archer ran towards the source of the screams, and at Aragorn's shout „Wargs!" Faramir immediately spurred on Sunshine and steered her toward the hill.

Eowyn was about to follow when her uncle commanded her to lead the people to Helm's Deep.

Eówyn was about to follow when her uncle boomed in a commanding voice for her to lead the people to Helm's Deep.

Eówyn bristled. Should she be barred from proving her abilities once again? Before she could comprehend the answer, she spoke without thought.

"I can fight!"

Something changed in Theoden's face, and instead of repeating his order he turned it into a plea. Eówyn might have been able to fight against her king's command, but she could not deny her beloved uncle's request.

Allowing herself one last, envious look at Faramir as he rode towards the fight and glory which were denied to a shield maiden, she felt that old emotion of dread crept up in her again.

Once more the men dear to her were leaving to fight, leaving her behind, leaving her to wait for them to be brought back to her, cold and dead.

A shudder ran over Eowyn's spine, but it did not deter her from her obligation of herding the women and children towards the lower ground.

Faramir kept his eyes on her as long as he could manage it - only a few seconds, then he had to turn towards his duty of protecting the people Eówyn was shepherding away.

The picture she presented burned itself into his mind: Eówyn rallied the women, punctuating her orders by gesturing with her sword, her movements and gestures clothed in the self-confidence of a fighter. She seemed as strong and straight as the blade in her hand, no hint of affectation or weakness. This was not somebody to be left behind and shut away from fighting, but here and now, he had no power to change that.

He forced himself to look ahead, to become part of the too small group of defenders as it crossed the brow of a hill. Faramir saw the attackers cross a similar height, like a distorted mirroring of the Rohan riders. Faramir could distinguish dark shapes, riding crouched on the backs of impossible wolf-like creatures, nigh as tall as horses, and no doubt more bloodthirsty.

As the orcs came closer and closer, the arrows of the elf ripped holes into their midst, and then in a flash, they were upon the horse-men, the two forces clashing like strong currents of water vying for one streambed.

The orcs tried neither to lessen the impact nor to avoid the riders, steering their Wargs directly against the horses of the Rohirrim. They viciously threw them down, leaving the Rohirrim warriors without the added height and speed which fighting from horseback gave them.

Faramir managed to cut down the first few orcs who attacked him, and then, in a fleeting calm moment, drew his bow and started to take down orcs who threatened to succeed in killing the men deprived of their horses. A strange calm welled up in him as he concentrated on nothing else but to spot Rohirrim in distress, to draw, aim and release as his breathing remained steady and calm...

Then two groups of Rohirrim made it to the site of the battle, Gandalf among them with staff and sword at the ready, and the fighting turned into a slaughter as the orcs were cut down by an overwhelming onslaught of riders. In less then a minute, the orcs were felled, their Wargs slain, and the Rohirrim were searching the field for wounded and fallen friends.

Faramir searched the grounds around him, but there were no dead men, only orcs.

Strange.

Now that they lay there unmoving, they seemed less nightmarish. They were still distorted and filthy, but above all they were dead. Living things which lived no more, as dead as any man, elf or dwarf killed in battle.

_ Man, elf and dwarf..._ Faramir began to look around for the members of the Fellowship. There was Gandalf, tending to the wounds of a Rohirrim. He saw the dwarf, wrenching his axe free from a warg corpse, and the elf, searching for somebody.

Where was the Dunedain?

Not near his friends.

Not with the men walking among the dead and wounded.

The elf crouched down to speak to someone lying on the ground, but when Faramir came closer he saw that it was no man, but an orc.

Clutching the elvish pendant Faramir had seen around the neck of Aragorn, now stained with black orcish blood.

Faramir could not find the heart to ask the elf, what the orc had told him.

After watching the archer looking down the cliff and seeing the expression on his face when Théoden King decided to leave the dead behind, he did not need to ask.

When the riders divided, Faramir stayed with the smaller group accompanying those too badly wounded for a swift ride while the larger part of the riders hurried to catch up with the fleeing peasants.

He was selfishly glad to be spared the sight of Gandalf's despair. The Maiar had never discussed anything about the lost line of Isildur's heirs with Faramir, but it was clear enough to see that the wizard and the heir to the throne had not traveled together by coincidence, or for the first time.

Faramir could easily guess the hopes Gandalf had lost with the death of Aragorn, Son of Arathorn.

The fact that they were already within a few hours of the safety of Helm's Deep when the attack occurred only added bitter irony to the tragedy of his loss.


End file.
